Rushed
by ibuzoo
Summary: "Killing. What's it like?", she asks. He answers, voice steady, "It's like falling in love."


**o.**

_"What's it like?", she asks again, that night, voice barely above a whisper, hands tangled in his, and there's the smell of sweat and blood and cleaning agent, a cheap motel room and street lights paint different shades on their skin. But she doesn't care, looks at him and the way his eyes blow wide, a deadly glimmer in it when he thinks about these frantic, glorious moments after a kill, and so he answers._

* * *

**i.**

Tom's hands are covered in blood, thick and shining like honey, all down his front and knees, all drenched and dark patches on his clothes but it's his hands what Hermione sees. It's the first thing she notices.

It's always his hands.

* * *

**ii.**

There's a body face down between them on the floor of their motel room, slaughtered, blood soaked and Hermione knows they have to do something about that soon, already working on their options and Tom's eyes are fixed on her and _really, really?,_ cause she can't bring herself to move, frozen to the ground. Tiny drops of blood slide from Tom's fingers onto the carpet and Hermione knows she should fear the feral shimmer in his eyes, the way the grey fades until it's nearly black, wild, lethal, out of control.

But Hermione knows better.

Tom is always in control.

* * *

**iii.**

_She asked Tom once, lying together in a single-bed mattress, always a cheap motel-room with street lights flickering outside their window and she was curled against his side. She asked him what he saw in those moments and he didn't answer right away, silence filling the room, her heart constricting as she wondered if she'd done something wrong, but then he stroked her hair back, pressing their foreheads together._

_She traced constellations and scars across his naked chest and kept silent._

* * *

**iv.**

Hermione can see in his eyes what it is like to take a life, the rush, the adrenaline and the incredible rush of forcing a blade into someone's vital organs, butchering them out. She keeps them low and off the radars, Tom's charms clearly helping but it's always her to clean up his mess. They keep a low profile when they're in town and move on before the news spreads, no one should ever think to look closer.

She deals with the logistics and he's the one that basks.

* * *

**v.**

_(Hermione knows that she is the ferryman)_

* * *

**vi.**

Tom sets a heel under the man's chin and pushes his head up so Hermione can see his face, or better what's left of it, from the skin that peels off in layers, slaughtered and massacred. She recognises it immediately even without the hungry look in the man's eyes, remembers his crude behaviour in the bar they were earlier on, remembers the way he asked her if he could buy her a drink.

_(what she remembers most is the way Tom's eyes turned dark and the way he thought about a dozen different ways to kill the man right there)_

Tom kicks the corpse's head back down again and steps over it, circling her like the prey she was and she wants it, the viciousness, the primitive gory look he gives her, wants to take in everything and memorise every detail of his motions.

His eyes never leave her face.

* * *

**vii.**

Another drop of blood hits the carpet.

* * *

**viii.**

_"I wish I could show you", Tom had said that night, running his hands through Hermione's still wet curls, leaving kisses and bruises on her delicate skin, murmurs, "I wish you'd understand. You'd love it, I know you would."_

* * *

**ix.**

Tom lunges, pins her to the bench and her spine flares up as soon as it hits hard wood. She doesn't try to fight it, wouldn't want to if she could because Tom is wrapped around her, clasps her in place with an arm around her waist, and the words leave her lips before she can stop herself, "Make me bleed Tom, please."

Tom's eyes darken even more and a chill runs down her spine, blood smears on her clothes, trickles down her face and his fingers leave stripes of sticky blood around her chin and neck when he growls, promises, "Later. As soon as we've cleaned up."

* * *

**x.**

It's all she needs to hear.

* * *

**xi.**

"Okay," she finally says, pulls herself together and pushes him away, takes a deep breath and repeats, "Okay. We have to move his body. There's a river not far from here, we can dump it there and we'll stick around another night until our booking here runs out. The water will corrode the skin and keep him under for at least two days. Not a big deal, even if the cops decide it's a murder, there's no reason they'll trace it to this motel room. By the time they do, we'll already be gone."

Tom smirks, gives an approving look and they need to wrap the body in some sheets, bring him down to dump in the river, dump their clothes too, need to scour the carpet, the tiles, the whole room.

She doubts a place this shady keeps careful records.

It's why they chose it, after all.

* * *

**xii.**

_(Hermione knows that she is the ferryman and Tom gives her coins like the closed eyes of his corpses)_

* * *

**xiii.**

"And tell me, what do we do after?", Tom asks, a fleck of blood on his cheek that catches the light when he tilts his head, predator eyes on her and she feels herself blush under his intense gaze.

He catches her hand, grasps at her hair and there's dry blood crumbling in her curls, between his fingers but Tom kisses her, hard and violent and brutal in all the ways she wants most. She feels bruises on her lips, teeth that clash against each other, pulls herself closer towards him, desperate to be closer and their bodies grind together.

When they finally break free of each other, she reaches up to wipe the stain on his cheek away.

_(we'll do whatever you want, she thinks)_

* * *

**xiv.**

"What's it like?", she asks again, that night, voice barely above a whisper, hands tangled in his, and there's the smell of sweat and blood and bleach, a cheap motel room and street lights paint different shades on their skin. But she doesn't care, looks at him and the way his eyes go wide, a deadly glimmer in them when he thinks about these frantic, glorious moments after a kill, and so he answers, voice steady, "It's like falling in love."

* * *

**xv.**

It's like falling in love.


End file.
